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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527973">Better After Death</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrrlhe/pseuds/Myrrlhe'>Myrrlhe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>King of Fighters</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, Minor Depictions of Psychological Abuse, Minor World-Building, local teenager decides to become professional bully: the story, pre-2003 to XIII</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:07:09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,990</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527973</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myrrlhe/pseuds/Myrrlhe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>'Because, I think I learned how to love-' Becoming a normal human being is hard, especially when you're only 16 and on the run; with only 50 Euros, a passport, and a stolen bottle of nail polish. </p>
<p>And all's right with the world!</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>14</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Prologue: Pagliacci</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>“I fold.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What? We just started! Ugh.” The man across throws the cards in his gloved paws on the table. Among the face-ups, two jacks stare up in disgust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll start the next round.” The cards, jacks in tow, are gathered up by the other companion at the table, hands pale as a corpse. It’s a stark contrast when they reach for the card stack, with the first player’s marred knuckles next to it, tanned from decades under the Shanghai sun. They sit proudly amidst the glove’s leather, but unfortunately they belonged to a man so straightforward, so dense, that the sheer effort of a poker face would probably kill him outright. A giggle sneaks out, but what’s a few laughs to a round of no-stakes poker? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless of these thoughts, the cards are shuffled, cut, then dealt smoothly. The aforementioned man snatches up his share. “Ha! Good ol’ Buddha is smiling upon me today!" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Giving up altogether, Shen?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Can it! I know you have a good hand, I can smell it.” Ew. Shen, or Shen Woo; the infamous Shanghai’s God of War himself, barrels on, ignoring the wrinkle of nose from that last comment. “Come on! Let’s duke it out, man to man!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another snicker. A set of beautifully painted nails lay on the table to rest, four different white insignias, on a layer of black. "Now, who can resist a challenge like that?” The nails coyly tap the wooden surface, once, twice. “Alright, I’m in.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I raise.” The other player, Duo Lon, opens his mouth. Unlike Shen, there’s a true poker face on him, except for a mild look of concentration. Or not, Duo always looked like that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shen grins, all teeth and fangs. It’s almost tragically obvious that the declaration barely registered to him at all. “Ha, bring it on!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hold on, I raise too.” While the declaration is mostly to cut the gangster off, it’s just isn’t in style to let someone so gloomy take the spotlight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Duo Lon barely lifts an eyebrow in response. Even that’s elegant, somehow. “I raise again, then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A whistle. “Spicy! You must be feeling confident! Odd, coming from you.“ The last line comes out as a nice, long drawl. Not much of a pressure, considering the opponent, but still fun! “One more raise for me as well, then!”   </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hey! What are you trying to pull? I’m the one who challenged you, not that fucking stickman!” The Shanghai-local barges in swinging. The ‘stickman’ flashes a dry look, but keeps quiet. It’s funny, but also eye-catching, with how the thick black stripes of Shen’s tattoos ripple in outrage via the steely biceps beneath. It’s admittedly, a little mesmerizing. No wonder Shen flaunts his breasts out all day. “What are you even raising anyway? This is a no-stake match!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“True...What about dinner? Loser gets the check.” Duo Lon nods, and there aren’t any special words from Shen either. “I’ve been eyeing this pretty nice seafood restaurant 5 minutes away from here🎵 Or not, I hear they don’t allow dogs to enter. Sorry, Shen, but we’ll have to go without you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>You’d think the man was on fire by the steam spilling out from his ears. “You-I’ll-Shut up! We’re playing, right now!” Oh, he makes it so, so easy. Too easy, really. “Call!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Shen’s hand is definitely good. A flush of spades, two, four, nine, with a King and Queen. His grin and boast’s immediately shut down though with the next hand. “A full house?!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You did say my hand was good!” Amidst the three 5’s, the red joker agrees, its grin matching well with the paired 7. Ignoring the loud curses, the garish mask turns to the remaining player, who still has his cards under those corpse hands of his. “Come on, Duo Lon. The restaurant closes around 10, and I want to look nice before going!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The swearing stops. "If you show up in a bowtie, I don't care if we're teammates. I’m going to stick you into the ocean myself."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t know Shen, a dip in some water suits you far better. You did shower today, did you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eight of Diamonds.” They both turn their heads, but Duo Lon’s tone is unchanging, low and impassive. The way he lays out the cards face up is the same, in his own pace. “Eight of Hearts. Two of Spades. Eight of Spades.” Un, deux, trois of a kind. There’s still a card left in those long fingers, but with how things are going, it can only be an Eight of Clubs. Or just maybe-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it’s because the outcome is already clear, but by accident, the gaze on the cards slips, and lands on the opposing pair of eyes. Something flashes, in those red blood-like irises and ah. Of course. From the first raise, it’d become something beyond this trivial game of poker, but before that can be fully processed, the game’s already decided.</span>
  <span></span><br/>
<span><br/>
</span>
  <span>“A second joker? What kind of crazy luck do you bastards have?” True to Shen’s word, there it was; a second, glistening black joker on the table. It stares, conveying the exact same message that Duo Lon’s eyes have. For a brief second, the thought of setting the card on fire along with the man seems enticing, but it’s turned away with a snort and a stretch of the arms. “I swear, you two better not be cheating-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh lighten up, Shen. It’s just dinner.” The fun’s all gone now, but defeat should be taken with grace. “Good match, Duo Lon🎵”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It was close. Still, I must say...” The assassin brushes some of his bangs to the side, masking one eye. It’s a mundane act, so when Duo’s voice suddenly jumps up an octave, no one is prepared for it. “Don’t play your trump card till the end...the very end!” Dropping the hair and falsetto, Duo Lon turns to them in the same calm expression as if nothing happened. “...So, how was my Ash impression?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stare at him for one, two, three seconds before Shen Woo starts howling, banging on the table and scattering cards as he barrels over himself in laughter. Not him though. There were a slew of reactions to choose from; from laughing it off, giving a scalding remark, to even puffing up his cheeks in a show of protest. None of them comes forth though, and he finds his lips pursing in a straight line. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, Ash?” Even Duo Lon is smiling, à la a small thin curve. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I want to figure you out. </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lips still pursed, Ash Crimson defiantly twirls the edge of his bang around his index finger, and remarks “terrible.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Say Over Again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>me editing this chapter: having cringe comps with my fail son</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Ash Crimson had learned not to make a fuss from a relatively young age. The reason was simple: because it didn’t do anything. Nothing changed, so it was pointless.  </p><p> </p><p>The sun bleaches the pages of the small book, and Ash squints. In the blaze, the firm black letters are still slightly makeable. <b>“Say over again, and yet once over again, That thou dost love me. Though the word repeated...” </b>Fingers toy around with the corner of the page. It’s all quite terribly shmucky. That’s on him though, for picking up a sonnet collection exclusively about love. Et tu, Elisabeth Barrett Browning.</p><p> </p><p>It’s still the middle of class, but really, who cares. The view from the window is the same, a stretch of dull white despite the sun, bleaching the trees below gray. He takes another glimpse at the page. "<b>Too many stars, though each in heaven shall roll, Too many flowers, though each shall crown the year?” </b> You think there’d be some of those flowers around by now, considering it’s March. <b>“Say thou dost love me, love me, love me-" </b> With a click of the tongue, the book is shut with a soft thump. Boring, boring, <em> boring </em>. The student next to him shoots a strange look. Ash replies with a blown kiss. </p><p> </p><p>Something bad is about to happen. The statement hangs back outside the window, beating like a drum. Not because of anything he’d ever done, oh no. It’s just a matter of fact, like an already published news article. Ash snickers. Now wouldn’t that be an interesting concept. He picks up a long-abandoned pen, making sure there’s a slight flourish for the audience. He doesn’t have anything particular in mind though, so the pen resorts to making patterns, tidy neat loops of ink on the wooden desk. Tragic how things were going to turn out, but oh well! C’est la vie. </p><p> </p><p>“You can’t do that to school property.” It’s that same student again. Class must have ended, from the looks of it. Time really passes in a blink of an eye. Ash swings over with an easy smirk. </p><p> </p><p>“Really? I had no idea! You should tell me more.” One leg over the other, a finger expertly twirling the ribbon in his hair. The way you hold yourself is a weapon in its own right, but more importantly, doing this is just a lot of fun. “Or you can skip all that and talk about yourself. That’ll be far more interesting.” </p><p> </p><p>"I-You-You’ll get in trouble." Oh, they look so threatened…! </p><p> </p><p>"I'm being honest! I don't even know your name! Well, that's because I couldn't bother with any of you people." He leans forward, and the other flinches back. "Why don't I start? My blood type is O, I like long walks on the beach, and this," another twirl, "is my lucky ribbon! It fits my complexion, don’t you think?" </p><p> </p><p>Fire. That’s what he saw before the morning struck, and how he knows about the things to come. Fire, blazing in a color that he doesn’t remember. She, Betty that is, used to call it a nightmare, ages ago, but it’s more like an omen. An omen only good for signalling the bad things to come...it sounds romantic, in its own way. </p><p> </p><p>The pest is gone now. The finger pulls away from the ribbon in a huff, leaving the red fabric to drop back to the side. Disappointing to the end. He waves a hand over the pen scribbles, and they vanish, leaving the tiniest of emerald lights in their wake. Nothing left other than to read, he supposes. </p><p> </p><p>Ash flips over to the abandoned sonnet. Number twenty-one,<b> ‘Say over again’</b>. With a slight turn of the shoulder, he turns to the next page. In the steady sunlight, the printed ink of the previous sonnet bleeds over to this one, rendering it unreadable if you squint. </p><p> </p><p>Something bad is about to happen. He just wishes it would hurry up and get it over with. Hopefully before he gets to sonnet 43. </p><hr/><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’s March, but it still gets dark around 4 pm, long after school. Four, he mulls the number around. An unlucky number in the East, due to its pronunciation being similar to the one for ‘death’. The fact brings a smile. Underneath the four o'clock sky, everything is set with a bitter orange tone. It sets the mood nicely, even with the persisting clouds. What better time than to have a romantic date with misfortune? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The venue leaves a lot to be desired, though. Bricks; chipped, weathered, and clearly abandoned, litter the ground. Only a select few still remember their role as a wall, leaning against the remaining iron fence. As much as the lighting sets the tone, it only serves to make this place emptier. It melts the bricks into the shadows, leaving only the thin bars of the fence to show that there’s something there. He kicks a stray pebble in the way, sending it flying, and it clangs against the rusted metal. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He actually doesn’t know why he’s here, in this space full of nothing but rubble. Not completely nothing, there’s still a few things that are left, a few stone pillars there, a headless statue here. You’d have to be a particular kind of dunce to not see how disgraced with soot they are though. Perching on one of the wall sections, Ash breathes in, checking if the air is still bitter from the charcoal. It's not, and strangely, he feels disappointed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fire. It was fire that destroyed this place. Of course, he doesn’t remember the details. Not the fire, not the supposedly huge mansion this place once was, and not the many, many people that supposedly lived in it. Not at all. That’s selfish of him, Ash supposes. Even as a child, that hasn’t changed a bit. From here, a single ray of light glints on one of the many piles of abandoned rocks, and for a second, it can almost be mistaken as a lit fireplace. A fancy one, one that would be fit for a home-</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turns away. It stands out as an eyesore. Yes, he hasn’t changed one bit. Maybe that’s why unlike Betty, who has absorbed the new Blanctorche estate into her person, he seemed to belong here. A pause, and then a laugh. It comes easy and light. Well, this place is his ‘property’ after all. No use thinking about it too deeply.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it’s here, in this empty lot, that he comes face to face with the Devil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Finally, we meet.” From behind a collapsed brick wall walks out a cloaked figure, who couldn’t possibly have been there from the start. They lay a stark pale hand on the stone. Their face is shadowed with a hood, but it doesn’t mask the eyes, jack-knifing the slight darkness of the afternoon. “It’s been...years? Humans, they create the most useless of things.” Yes, that is the Devil. For even in the slight distance and the skewed lighting, Ash Crimson recognizes on the creature his own face, and that’s how he knows; this is the Devil. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A small breath of air. Well, he’s no Faust. “Haha, sorry. Don’t know anyone with a drab get-up like that. You got the wrong person.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve grown suitable enough.“ The creature completely bypasses the remark. It looks around. “By the way, isn’t this…I see, you’ve done a better job than I could ask for. ” An air of satisfaction curls around the figure like a fat serpent. The edges of his lips threaten to curl at the sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You seem pretty happy talking to yourself. Why don’t you keep doing that, where I can’t see you? I’m sure it’ll be beneficial for both of us.“ Hands behind his back, keeping afloat with a light smile. Who knows. Maybe this is just some stranger. Someone human. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The figure stops midway. In the even duskier orange of the setting sun, the blue of its eyes suddenly turn gut-twistingly sickening. Fine, if the thing wants to play that way. “Enough playing dumb. Or is your common sense in the gutters from playing around with so many humans?” It turns, but before it can even take a single step, a sharp sizzle hits the air. The sizzle arcs and twists, forming a wake of sparks between them. They hang briefly, green glittering like a body of water. Unwittingly, his eyes flit to the opposite side, to the creature’s face, but before he can actually get a good glimpse, the sparks burst into life. They roar, the green blooming into a living wall of familiar emerald. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Green fire? You’re full of surprises.” Behind..! “You should be proud, I’d never imagined things to go this smoothly.” From the opposite side, the Devil has come closer, only a few meters away, and he now gets that glimpse. Cold blue eyes framed by flaxen hair, pale even under the hood, with the thin edge of its lips twisted in a smirk. There aren’t any freckles, he notices. Would it be stranger for the thing to have them, there’s no time to wonder. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The emerald lights up again, this time in both palms. It gushes, dripping onto the dirt like melting wax. “Are all snakes this talkative? No wonder your kind dried out." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing doesn’t even blink. “So you know something after all.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Merci! I actually know quite a few things." The hand motions in the air, scattering green droplets. "For example...I hear this fire works quite well for burning up folks with scales." This time, there’s not even enough time to breathe. In a single swipe, the fire leaps out, shedding into an arc as it flies. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Useless-" Those words are cut short as Ash's remaining hand lunges to the right. It grasps onto the heavy cloak that once again materialized from nowhere, and yanks, hard. Caught off guard, the figure stumbles, right into his range.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Caught you" He gets to say. The other hand is already up in the air as a fist, its fire burning as hot as it can be. The air shivers, and shivers again. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A laugh. It's low, and almost sounds metallic in the heat shimmer. "What are you rushing for? So I can't say my next words? You look so desperate." The blaze, incomprehensibly, </span>
  <em>
    <span>despicably so</span>
  </em>
  <span>, halts. In this distorted temperature, it's hard to feel anything, from the bunched up cloak, all the way to the surface of his own face. The face in front doesn't acknowledge any of this, its sneer only a mere head's width away. "It's a shame, I don't lay about praises very often."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Another breath. Without a free hand to play around with, the edges of his lips settle in twisting upwards instead. “I don’t have enough free time to listen to the ramblings of a fossil, much less a doppelganger” he drawls. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thing laughs again. “Doppelganger? Oh, you know better than that.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, did he now. “Dog of Ouroboros-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A noise. A sound. A terrible, terrible ringing sound. As if a bomb went off, right inside his ears. It keeps ringing, bringing nothing but sickening white. Coughs shudder out, as the lungs try to get some air, and that’s when the pain boils over. It flashes red against the retinas, as wave after wave of scalding temperature, but he refuses to make a scene, he won’t. The decision fills his mouth with pools of rust. They’re coughed out before they can be spilled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something solid rests upon the temple, hard, and the bloom of copper paralyzes his tongue. “...You brought this onto yourself. Didn’t that book say so; </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord in vain</span>
  </em>
  <span>’? So you understand, this is just punishment.” This texture, this shape. It’s laughable really, because of course, it can only be a hoof. "Are you listening to me? I know you’re not broken, from something like this. Do you know why?” The hoof grinds exactly into the point of the concussion. “Well? Do you?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The questions suddenly cut off with a hiss. The pressure on his head disappears with them, and immediately he gets back up. Both of his legs still don’t work, but it’s fine, better than lying like a dog. More coughs, but instead of blood, what spills out is liquid fire. Everything is ablaze, every part of him radiating flames. The heat takes place a beat later, or maybe it’s just his senses that are still scrambled. Frozen ground melts in the gaps between the fingers, and the shudders relax, slightly. It brings back his vision, little by little. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Burning this place down a second time?” The low voice calls out. “I’m not against it. Miserable bunch of insects they were.” It spits. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fingers dig into the now-mud of the courtyard floor. Making a fuss doesn’t change anything. Not the present, not the future, and definitely not the past. His head is slightly turned to hide the blinks. He still can’t see. “You shouldn’t know about that.” Slowly, slowly his sight returns, to the smoldering red of the dying sun encroaching on emerald. They mix together into a color he can’t place.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hm?...Ah.” Even in the blurriness, Ash knows; that the thing is grinning. “About how you’re the bad little culprit that set this place on fire? Is that what you mean? How the ashes of the burnt insects who lived here are on your hands? Again, do you know the reason?” Because you’re the Devil. “Ha. I’d explain...but it’s getting rather late.” Without warning, two arches of fire hurtle through the air, but they only hit the wall behind, blasting it into aged dust. There’s nothing there. “You’re smart, you can figure it out. Or maybe you already did.” With the emptier lot, its laugh sounds even more metallic as it echoes. “I’ll leave you to it for now. We’ll be seeing each other again.” The voice doesn’t come back after that, no matter how long he holds his breath. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A hint of bright red. The ribbon had come off at some point, lying dangerously close to the pool of spreading fire. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Coming here was a mistake. He watches, as the flames make contact, and starts slaving away at the fallen cloth. It’s eaten up quickly, swallowed by a mix of red and green. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time passes by in the blink of an eye. It’s already night, and the absence of the sun returns the flames to its normal color, rendering its previous color unable to be remembered. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Inferno, Canto</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU IDIOT MAN.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The study is dark.</p><p>Outside the windows is also dark. It's night.</p><p>The carpet is stiff against the bare soles. It makes no sound. One step, two, then three, towards the center. At the center is a desk. It's a solid block of shadow, taking up most of the floor. Starting from the left corner, the hand trails right. Wood, more wood. Finally, it hits something metal. Fingers grasp it, a drawer handle.</p><p>First drawer. Nothing. Second drawer. Sticky with dust. Next. There is no clock on the wall, and no methodical ticking. There isn't much time left. This handle's rough, it'll mark the skin for sure. It has to be here, in this place.</p><p>Something grabs your arm.</p><p>It pulls itself up from inside the drawer. It reaches eye-level, before falling, right on top, on four legs. In the darkness, in the carpet smell, there's a sound of something opening. A sound of a maw. "I finally found you" says the maw right above. It holds both hands on each side. They grasp, entwining their fingers with the rest. In this nothingness, the jaws above move, in the only direction they can, downwards. The fingers becomes tangling, melting, fusing-</p><p>"I finally found you." From the black of nothingness, there's a familiar voice. A familiar face, a familiar expression. There's nothing on her person, but that's when she was at her worst. She stares, looking down at the now single you. "Our mission, our destiny, I will sever it all with this light." With hand encased in brilliance, she raises her arm. One strike, to the neck. You stare. "Perish, beast."</p><p>She swings-</p><hr/><p>'We will be arriving at Le Creusot station shortly, passengers please...'</p><p>Awoken by the reflection in the window. It trembles, along with the wall he's been leaning against. Outside the see-through plastic is the same old sight that's been repeating for the 100th time; trees, houses, sky. The vehicle hits a rough spot on the tracks, and the entire compartment jolts. He checks the time. A hundred and ten minutes since boarding, 140 if counting the transfer time. Ash clicks his tongue. Trains. You think they would be faster.</p><p>He swings his legs onto the empty seats. There's no one else in the compartment, so why not? It doesn't offer any room though, so he gives it up. The steadily growing reflections upon the vanity mirror weren't just a trick of the light after all. Well, no need for uncalled attention, in his position. Do train officials have contact with the police? Are runaway youths even under police jurisdiction? Ash doesn't know, and he doesn't care to find out.</p><p>There's not a lot of baggage. In fact there's none at all, save for a handbag. In his mind, that makes him look less like a runaway...probably. From its place on the floor, it doesn't show any sign of being moved, but it ends up in his hands anyway. There's not much inside. Passport, two tickets here, a spare headband there, and money. He thumbs over the bills. Un, deux, trois...cinquante. All five thousand Euros from the study accounted for.</p><p>It's called a study, but the only person who ever used it no longer exists. The new leader of the house has her own office, and the important material have been stored somewhere else. Thus, it's a dead room. Greyed with no purpose, along with the rest that's left there. Maybe that means this money is proof of graverobbing, not stealing. He blows a little on the fingertips, ridding imaginary specks of dust. It doesn't matter, either way. Five thousand is nothing but a single grain of salt compared to the rest of the house's fortune, and the dead will never have mouths.</p><p>The train slows down. From the window, the platforms come into view, simple blocks of concrete. The rumbling turns to footsteps, sounds of metal-grinding wheels. Voices worm their way past the gap of the compartment's doors; shouting, talking, laughing.</p><p>He keeps his gaze straight ahead. Looking at the direction of the doors strangely bitters his tongue, and there's nothing in the window besides a stare of the mirror. The tip of his bang curls around the index finger, a habit. People are all the same. Wherever they are, they announce their presence all too loudly. A loud mess of noises, here or from school; it's all the same-should be. Somehow, this one feels different, just a little. Maybe it's excitement. They all sound lively enough. The hair drops back down with a snort. Like there's anything to see in a nowhere city like Le Creusot. Now Paris, on the other hand...</p><p>Ah, not like he's ever been, of course.</p><p>In the loud volume, the air settles down, gaining an extra kilogram or two. Maybe, a weaker person might choke on it. He fixes his hair by the window. It's a nice hairband, shame to let it go to waste. If the police did come in blazing, would they take it away? 'How did it feel to steal from a dead man,' they might ask. Why, it felt rather nice, he would reply; before making a dashing escape. How does it feel, they'd give chase, How does it feel to be born evil? Well-</p><p>A bump. Finally, the train starts to move, pulling out of the station. Again, Ash checks the time. A hundred and twenty minutes; so two more hours left until Paris. Groaning, he places his legs on the opposite seats. It's a bad fit. Surely France can't be that big of a landmass to warrant this.</p><hr/><p>In that span of two hours, it had started to rain. It doesn't stop anyone, except for him. He dawdles, just barely inside the Gare de Lyon. Through the downfall, the squares of buildings and streets are visible, sprawling. Ash frowns. It's...much blockier than he thought. The wet air brings a certain smell, something more than plain water. It can't quite be placed, but it stops the drizzle from completely blurring the border into an ugly swab of grey. Paris, huh.</p><p>Well, nothing gained 'less ventured! A bold stride, all the way to the ends of the crosswalk, waiting until the green light, then striding again; all the way into the nearest place with a roof. Hm. Yes. That's enough venture for now!</p><p>The place turns out to be a restaurant-no a 'fast food joint'. A fast food joint… The place is packed, coats of all colors filling the tables and front of the counter. Judging by the line, he supposes he has to order there...How quaint. The glaring menu says there's something called a breakfast menu, so he gets a 'hash brown', with some juice to boot. Their prices are absurdly measly, and immediately the appeal of these places are clear.</p><p>The glass of the window side is cold to the touch. It's not a bad sensation, even though he was just outside. Maybe other than making him a little hungry. He pokes at the golden brown oval. Ouch. Hot. Is this thing supposed to be meat? A bite, and the resulting answer is a resounding no; just potato. Very, very hot and oily potato.</p><p>From inside, the sight of the city is a lot more inviting. The glass seems to freeze the rain in place, leaving the far-off shapes in the fog much more solid. They give weight to the cityscape. Sterner. Rougher. More real.</p><p>Real. The mouthful of grease goes down like a lump of coal. This here really is Paris, and this really is, real. Through the blouse's thin fabric, the leather strap of the handbag chafes against his shoulder. The plan. There was a plan. What was next? What was he supposed to do? At where? In which direction?</p><p>A phantom itch flares across his right cheek. Flicking the cheap orange juice down his throat, Ash closes his eyes.</p><hr/><p>
  <em> The sun is back to normal, blazing overhead. There's plenty of shrubbery here in this garden, but they do nothing useful, like providing cover. Holding the small plastic bottle in a way it won't slip, he gives the bench a little push, making it swing. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I finally found you." Ash doesn't have to look to know who it is. Tall and sharp, from her haircut to the riding crop on her waist. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He turns anyway. "Hi Betty! Can we keep this short? I'm a little busy at the moment." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The new head of the Blanctorches crosses her arms. "From what, exactly? You graduated from school a month ago." Coincidentally, she also happens to be his older sister, but now, that's not very important, is it? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Details." He puts the plastic stick close to his lips, and blows. Bubbles, of many sizes, scatter. "Besides, highschool does start after summer." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Her arms remain crossed. "Why go to school in the first place? We have perfectly fine tutors here." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Whisking the bubble mix again. "Well, it's boring, for starters." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Ash." Ooh, name call. First warning. "Tell me the truth." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He gives her a full look this time. "Why would I be lying? Staying here, having to look at the same five old raisins-" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Those people have been in loyal service to the Blanctorche family for decades." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "The same five old raisins," he bravely continues "every single day makes for a dull scenery." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She cuts the reply short. "I wouldn't be talking about school if you've also kept up with your training." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I have been keeping up!" This time, the new batch of bubbles are tinged with a sheen of emerald. Under the sun, they dance beautifully. "See?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Enough." She uncrosses her arms. Back to her sides, her right hand is dangerously close to the handle of the riding crop. Her patience is running out earlier than usual. "Why have you been sneaking into the old study?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Ah, that's why. "Oh? Didn't know there was a rule saying I couldn't." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Answer the question." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Aww, come on. You're always so mean, pushing me around." The stick makes a point as he waves it around. "All I did was try and get some new reading material. Found nothing, of course, not even a single bible." It's actually the truth, a good chunk of it, at least. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Betty seems satisfied with the answer for now. She joins him on the bench swing. It creaks under their combined weight. "Lately, I feel like you've been trying to avoid me" she speaks frankly. "Did something happen, maybe in school?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A snort. "Like I care what those idiots think." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She keeps pressing. "Then was it here? I told you to tell me if any of the staff keeps treating you poorly." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Again," he tosses the still-full bottle of soap-mix into the somewheres of grass. Its, along with this conversation's, value of entertainment had dropped quite a while ago. "I could care less about what those people think." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "...Is it what you said earlier, that you think this place is boring?" There's a familiar tone of superiority and pride in Betty's voice, one that's only reserved for 'important' things, and for a moment he mistakes the acid pooling in his mouth is the bubble mix. "I know you're restless, but you know why everything's like this. Why we have to stay here." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A laugh. "Do I? I must have forgotten." Hand subtly placed at the tip of the chin, eyelids scrunched up in an absolute show of effort. "Oh! It's coming back to me! Something, something about a mission." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Ash." Ahaha. Second warning! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "The details are so fuzzy though... what could they possibly be?" Laughing, one more time. How far can he push this limit? "Well, it doesn't matter, right?" </em>
</p><p>Crack. <em>Ah. There it is. Of course, the expectation doesn't in anyway lessen the impact.</em> <em>"Our families are dead." Her voice does not tremble. Neither does her hand with the riding crop. If you concentrate, you can still see the white light encasing the hard leather. "They died, believing in their mission to their last moments. As the last heir of the Blanctorche family, I will not allow you to sully their, or the Crimsons' name."</em></p><p>
  <em> Ash rubs his cheek. That crop would have left a mark for sure. "You're right, they're dead. So?" With a little hop, he leaves the bench. "That doesn't have anything to do with me, now does it?" </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "You-" </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>"They're dead. That's it. So what?" It's a weapon; the fact that he doesn't even remember the accident. He'd only been five after all, but it's still a rusted sword anyway. He spins around. The grass crushed under foot gives off a heady scent. "Why should I care about what they thought? Not like I chose to be born here. Not like I'm the one who killed them either." That last lie is thrown in, a stinger on a scorpion tail. If you close your eyes, you can almost mistake this entire scene as a dream. </span>
  </em>
</p><p><em><span>Her lips part in a breath of surprise, and satisfaction twists. (</span></em><span>See, you don't know anything at all.</span><em><span>)</span></em> <em><span>"No one thinks you did such a thing. Why would you ever say that?" She's standing but the lie's done its job, halting her where she stands.</span></em></p><p>
  <em> "Hm. Who can say?" He finds himself tugging on the edge of his bangs yet again, and stops before a frown can surface. "Well, I'm off! As I said, I'm a little busy at the moment." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Ash!" Too late for a final warning! </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "Stop with the nagging please...it's annoying." He calls out, but doesn't care to look back. Everything is already done with, the money taken, and essentials packed. Nothing left to do here, except to catch the next morning train. </em>
</p><p>'We'll be seeing each other again' <em> the Devil's low words ring in his ears. He spits. The memory of blood mixes badly with the remaining acid. We'll see. We'll see about that. </em></p><p>
  <em>There will be no more dreams from now on, not anymore.</em>
</p><hr/><p>The lock on the window melts like butter, and within seconds, he's in. No big deal. It's only the third floor.</p><p>It's the middle of the day, but the lights are turned off. So this house should be empty. Ash looks around. It's quite small, but not bad, in terms of design. Unlike Betty, he has very lenient standards. A temporary base until things 'settle', at least as much as Paris could afford to. A new start, in the City of Light! He'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited.</p><p>There's nothing to unpack, but just as he opens the handbag, the front door swings open. A young woman stands in the doorway instead, her lips parted in an 'O'. "What."</p><p>"Bonjour, Mademoiselle!" A little bow. "Mind if I crash here for a week?"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Slaughterhouse Five</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yeah I spent 3 months writing this. What about it</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>There was a giant serpent, once upon a time. Big enough to circle around the world seven times, and thick enough to divide continents, it was called Ouroboros.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It would sleep, most of the time, coiled underground. Every hundred days though, it'd open its eyes. It'd lift its heavy body up and slither, scales rattling like broken bells against the Earth's crust, all the way until it reached the surface.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nobody knows what kind of thoughts that monster would have, when it saw the sun. But it would rampage, every time. Toppling mountains, erasing forests, splitting the sea; until it swallowed a thousand men. Only then, would it crawl back below, restarting the cycle. And so it went.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>From its fallen scales, things, half snake-half earth creatures, were born. These 'Children of Ouroboros', quickly made themselves known. Posing as 'gods', amassing mankind, taking over civilizations; like mold seeping through a crack in the wall. So they could offer sacrifices for its birth-parent to swallow. This 'blasphemy' continued for centuries. And so it went.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Then, a revolution. Led by three people, each with a strange light. In the color of blue, white, and red, it salted the hybrid's skins, burning them. Together, they drove back the false 'gods', and when time passed, the next generation took the three's places. And so, and so, and so. Until the Children of Ouroboros returned to the earth, until the Serpent swallowed itself in hunger and wrath.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And so it goes.</em>
</p>
<hr/><p>Thump. The sound attracts a malicious stare from the nearby desk. Grinning, Ash slides the closed book back to the shelf. Then, when the guard is down! With a clatter, the tossed notebook skitters haphazardly onto the desk's wooden surface. Keeping eye contact, he heads over and spins a nearby chair once, just once, and collapses into its loving embrace. He bats his eyes at the stare boring into his skull. Now that's loud.</p><p>From outside, through a window, the French flag billows. Blue, white, and red. With a final snap, the eyelids stay down. Maybe the world 'is' conspiring against little old him. Eyes still shut, he leans against the back of the chair with a silent hum. This still is a library, after all, can't make too much noise. Ah, tragic. The tip of his boots scuff against the table leg, probably. So what, if a world-ending snake comes back from the dead. So what, if he just so happens to be related to corpses of thousands of years ago who killed it off in the first place. The dead don't even have mouths to breathe, let alone tell anybody what to do. Or so it goes.</p><p>A flash of blue, not from the flag, but from a stiff jacket and waistcoat; and eyes fly open. There's nothing though, because of course, his eyes were closed in the first place. With a sigh(another blazing glare from the opposite side of the table), Ash sits back up. It would be like Betty to materialize from nowhere to weed out disrespect, but not today! Unfortunately for her.</p><p>The notebook he tossed lies just a bit to the side. He leaves it there. Fingers fiddling with the corner of the page, the blank paper crinkles slightly. Books up to here, yet none of them come even close to being helpful. A complete waste of time, just like the Ouroboros tale itself.</p><p>Of course, there's more to the story. Politics. Disputes. Old men throwing expensive wine down their throats. Oh, the third family grew too weak and got absorbed by the other two. Oh, now the red fire is green. Who cares? Nobody was interested and nobody cared, because there was nothing left. No people, and no monsters. His fingers twitch, creasing the notebook paper irreparably. '<em>We'll meet again.'</em> The ghost of a low laugh crawls on his palm. No monsters, except one.</p><p>So the real question: How do you get back at the Devil? Ash trails the air with a finger, leaving behind an invisible circle. Starting from the top. Its objective? Probably the revival of Ouroboros. Why? None of his business. How...? The circle halts. Already stuck. Or maybe not.</p><p>The library computer is tucked all the way to the far left wall. Slowly, he presses the keys of the old keyboard, typing out the words. All of the scraps of information from the old study is written down in the notebook, but he has them memorized anyway.</p><p>The first keyword 'Orochi' brings up some folklore from the far east. A quick scroll through describes a snake with eight heads and eight tails, underbelly rotted with blood. It's struck down by a God, who took the beast's tail and fashioned it into a weapon; the Sword of Kusanagi. The cursor hovers on the last word. He's heard that name before, somewhere, sometime ago. The page on it doesn't answer any questions. In fact it barely has anything at all. One of the Three Sacred Treasures, rumored to have fallen in a lake and be lost forever. One giant monster, and three things related to its defeat. The corner of his mouth slant upwards. Now where has he heard that before?</p><p>The rest of the notes turn out to be absolutely useless. Infographs, <em>ugh</em>. His head rests on the desk. How much time did it pass? Too much. Perhaps he should have gotten lunch. Maybe there's a place nearby with some good sea bass. Maybe even crab. A cat-like stretch, from the very bottom of his spine. Well, a break can't hurt, but one more. One more search. Not even bothering to look at the keyboard as the fingers typed in the word, Ash half-expects another bank site to pop up. Then he sits up.</p><p>A news article at the top of the results glares in blue against the white backdrop: '<em>Freak Tornado strikes Japan during International Martial Arts Tournament'</em>. Click. It's an image of a destroyed arena; collapsed walls, torn flags on the ground. On one large piece of rock, just out of sight, is a dark stain of pixels. Immediately, he knows it to be blood. <em>On April 13th, Sunday, a sudden freak wind storm hit the Kyoto region of Japan. While most of Kyoto escaped undamaged, the Kyoto Nishikyogoku Athletic Stadium; the location of the finals of the King of Fighters Tournament, suffered heavy damage. The number of wounded are 137, and the recorded casualties so far has been 3 people. Eyewitnesses say the storm almost seemed to happen at the center of the arena...</em></p><p>Below is another picture; of two people. On the left a man wearing a black blazer, and a woman in a white dress on the right. It's a photo, but the shot has the exact moment of movement, that it's not a static image at all. It's almost like the two are dancing, from the outstretched arms trailing white sleeves, to the arch of the man's back. With this angle, he looks as if he's going to jump out of the screen, stance wide, dark eyes blazing, as he swings upward with a gloved fist. Something about all of it is mesmerizing, in a way. Maybe that's why it takes a moment and a half to see that the fist is on fire.</p><p><em>Member of the finalist Team Japan, Kyo Kusanagi(left) facing off against Chizuru Kagura(right), for the final match of the King of Fighters Tournament.</em> <strong>Kusanagi</strong>. It's that man again. The fire. A giant snake. He looks at the image again and notices a flash of a grin, behind strands of black hair. It's crooked, cocky as if sharing an inside joke and the inside of Ash's mouth goes dry.</p><p>The King of Fighters. He's heard of it before, of course. People in school talking about it here, a little talk about it on the news there. Something something the world's first international team-based martial arts tournament. That part isn't important though. The mouse arrow circles around Kusanagi's face, cutting the cocky grin off. Three treasures. The King of Fighters. The smear of blood. Something had happened in that tournament, on that final day. The smell of copper creeps up again at the back of his throat.</p><p>Would something also happen if the tournament happened again this year...?</p>
<hr/><p>"I'm back." Sing-songing his way through the apartment door. No need for the window, courtesy of the spare key.</p><p>From the couch, a bob of brown hair turns to look. "You sure are walking in here like you own the place" she says, dryly. She motions with an open can of beer to the bag in his arms. "Did you get groceries?"</p><p>He makes a face. "Ew, no." He upends the bag, spilling the contents.</p><p>A yelp. "Hey, don't do that, I have people downstairs!" The beer sloshes around panickedly and Ash smiles. It takes an extravagantly long removal of his jacket for her to ask another question. "Do teenagers these days even read books?"</p><p>"What can I say, I'm a little special."</p><p>"Criminal, more like." A dull tink. The can must have been set down. "Just because you paid back for busting my window lock doesn't mean I can get a new one anytime soon." He's untying the last of his boots when the voice rings out. "'<em>A Guide to Chinese 101'</em>?"</p><p>The paperback pricks his fingers as it's yanked out of the woman's hand. "It's rude to look without permission." He gets to sneer. The book hangs limp, looking guilty. To the top of the shelf it goes.</p><p>"Says the one who broke into my house-"</p><p>He cuts the words off. "What's this?" He picks up a blue vial, lying on its side. He gives it a shake. It's caked with dust.</p><p>Suddenly, a horrible feeling. As if a fish from the deep took his fingers into its mouth. "I've been looking for this! What made me even put it up there in the first place..." The vial is in her hands now. It's still a dark sea-blue, even in her grasp, and maybe, just maybe, he sees something dark swirling in it.</p><p>She gives him a look. "It's nail polish. Haven't you seen one before?"</p><p>Nail polish. Of course it is.</p><p>"You got the nails for them. You interested?" There's an ulterior motive. It says it, right there upon her lowered brow. She then smiles. "Hey, this is my job. I know what I'm doing."</p><p>So he smiles back. "Why not?" The couch creaks as he takes a light fall on it.</p><p>"Have any specific color in mind?" The woman's tone is all business-like now. Her back's turned, rummaging through a dresser.</p><p>"Black's good. It matches my eyes, don't you think?" No response. He turns his head away with a huff. From here, the ceiling light is at an angle. It casts a contrast on the still-turned back.</p><p>It takes a bit for her to return, with an armful of plastic shapes and cylinders. They all rattle as they fall onto the tiny couchside table. "We probably won't be needing half this stuff, but you never know." She takes a black vial from the clutter and-</p><p>Ash yanks back his hand.</p><p>The woman's brows dip downwards. "I can't paint your nails if you don't give me your hand." There's nothing he can say to that. She takes his hand, and it feels like the fish all over again.</p><p>The brush is cold. It slowly inches, leaving behind a layer of coal-black. The grip shifts, and it's onto the next. It falls into a rhythm. A stroke. Shift. Stroke. Shift again. Something lurches. It's just skin. Just another human person. Another touch of the brush and it feels like a swarm of ants.</p><p>"Stay still." He bites his tongue. It's just a manicure. Something so unimportant, that it should count as a 'so it goes.' '<em>In the next moment, Billy Pilgrim is dead. So it goes.'</em> The phrase spills over, over his head, over to his insides.</p><p>So he talks. "So, how goes the search for a girlfriend?"</p><p>The brush stops. "How did you-"</p><p>He airily motions to the nearby bookshelf. " Had some spare reading time. <em>Pensées d'une Amazone, The One who is Legion, The Well of Loneliness. </em>You're not exactly trying to hide it."</p><p>Her eyelids blink, for a step and a half. Then- "Same boat, huh?"</p><p>For a moment, Ash forgets that he's trying to hurt someone. "Maybe. I haven't thought about it." It's the truth, but why he would ever say it, he doesn't know.</p><p>She keeps talking, somehow, as she starts painting again. "You haven't read the bottom shelf ones yet, right? Those are for adults-only!"</p><p>"Mm." The polish is starting to dry, the cold dying down. It's all her fault; he decides. Simple as that. From how it's her skin that feels like fish, to why it feels like he's lost a fight that hasn't ever happened.</p><p>As soon as he reaches that conclusion though, his hand hits open air. "There! Nothing fancy. What do you think?" It really is nothing much; just a simple layer of black. Ash inspects it closer, twisting his wrist left to right. It's nothing, but it's heavy. It weighs the tips of his fingers down, throwing them off balance. The nails shine, the light of the room reflecting off the polish as a small sheen.</p><p>With a nearby cushion he covers the hand up, save the manicure. The parts where she touched are still buzzing. "Not bad," he admits.</p><p>A snort. "I guess I'll take that." The couch drastically dips as the woman joins without warning. "You don't have to scoot over, there's plenty of space."</p><p>He returns to his position. It's a loss again, but it's better than being scrunched up to the side like a rat. A sideways glimpse has the woman holding the TV remote, switching through the channels on her outdated television. Colored light floods her face, framing an angled shadow beside her nose.</p><p>The light glitters on the black polish also. He takes another twist of the wrist. The balance is still crooked. He brings himself to allow a small frown. It really should be stifling, and it is, but not very. He doesn't know how to make of that. A flash of white light against black, and it's like the manicure is a back of an eel instead.</p><p>Suddenly the weight on the couch shifts, as the woman leans forward. "Hey, they're re-airing Titanic!"</p><p>"The boat that sunk in 1912?"</p><p>"Very funny. You'll like it, it has Leonardo Dicaprio in it."</p><p>The movie in fact, did have Leonardo Dicaprio in it, as a very very attractive sailor. The film also turned out to be 18+, but it wasn't Dicaprio showing skin so it didn't matter. Maybe he was in the same boat after all.</p>
<hr/><p>It takes three more days before his new nails to feel light again. Well, not light, but more natural. They fit, and that's the important thing.</p><p>Blue, green, pink, red...aha. Ash finally manages to find the black vial, picking it up. It shines briefly, before being tossed into the purse without a second thought. He also takes some brushes for good measure. You never know!</p><p>The cars outside buzz, the annoying racket spilling through the open window. He should close it, but he doesn't quite feel like it. He does close the curtains though. Too many ugly squares heading in one direction. With some slight effort, the Chinese 101 book manages to be squeezed inside the bag. Maybe that's an unpatriotic sentiment.</p><p>The room is dim, but that's because the lights are off. The owner of the flat doesn't like it when electricity is 'wasted', since it brings a higher bill. That's stupid, in his opinion. What's the point of offering a service if you're just going to ask for money anyway? Zipping up the purse, he pops the closet doors open. It's yellow bellied, not taking what you directly want.</p><p>There's quite a lot of clothes to choose from. Shirts, dresses, pants, stockings, so on. A lot of cool tones, with light blues and yellows, that go pretty well with his simple fit of blouse and trousers. From the far corner, Ash pulls out a brown coat. It's for winter, simple design, with a thick trim of fur around the neck and sleeves. The fur isn't something high-grade like rabbit, but also doesn't feel like plastic. It's honestly, a little tacky. He pulls it on. He hasn't forgotten it's summer, and immediately the heat is blasting.</p><p>He laughs. There's something about it; wearing a winter coat in summer, with a purse full of stolen nail polish. Something delightful. The clock ticks, announcing that it's already almost ten in the morning. That leaves a maximum of 14 hours for him to leave the country on this day. He tosses his spare keys onto the couchside table. It lands with a metallic splat and he really can't help but snigger. Briefly, he imagines that this grin might be the same as Kusanagi's.</p><p>Kusanagi. Finally, something important. He takes the coat off, tying it around his waist. There's a man out there who can also use fire and fought in a worldwide tournament with something that caused a tornado. It's the only real thing he has. Everything else is paltry; the clothes, the keys, the nails. ...Of course, that isn't a proper answer to anything. But who was going to challenge him?</p><p>Preparations set, Ash draws back the curtains. There's a taxi over th-ere across the street. An easy fast track to the airport. Swinging his legs over the open window frame, he allows a backwards glance. The front door stays closed, unchallenging. And since there's no challenge, it's an automatic win.</p><p>The thick fabric feels strange against his manicure.</p><p>With that, Ash lets go of the window.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Book references:  'In the next moment, Billy Pilgrim is dead. So it goes.' -&gt;Slaughterhouse-five<br/>                        Pensées d'une Amazone, The One who is Legion, The Well of Loneliness-&gt; lesbian literature</p><p>(Gay teenager) handshake (Lesbian woman)<br/>                     liking the Titanic</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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